Page 13

Mae

I lay across the sun-bleached seat of my old Chevy pickup and close my eyes.

I’m not sure why I drove out here in this thing.

Sheila is about as ancient as they come, and she loves breaking down at the most inopportune times.

That said, she’s a member of the family.

Hell, she’s probably the only member that understands me.

The cracked, vinyl seat clings to the sweat on my back as the scent of baked dust and warm motor oil settles into my nose.

Come on, Sheila. Haven’t I endured enough this week? I mean, just yesterday my wedding was canceled. I figured that would buy me some karma for at least a month or two.

A breeze sneaks in through the cracked window, bringing with it the scent of juniper and moss from the nearby lake.

You’d think a lake would be a high traffic area, but it’s hidden deep on one of those seasonal roads no one really knows about.

Heck, I wouldn’t know about it if I hadn’t gotten lost the first time I drove up to Rugged Mountain.

At first, it was scary being back here with no people or cell service.

Then, it was kind of nice to be alone with my thoughts and I’d make the trip up here from Miami just to seek the solitude.

The drive became a ritual, a mecca I’d set out on every few months.

Windows down, playlist humming, the city disappearing behind me as concrete highways turned to one lane roads.

Thoughts and noise from everyday life disappeared on those drives, and by the time I was tangled with the pines, I had clarity about whatever was going on in my life.

I lean my head back against the seat, close my eyes, and let the silence stretch over me. I may be stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a bottle of water and a granola bar, but it’s still better than yesterday.

Yesterday was a complete nightmare, though I think I did save face pretty convincingly.

Thank God. I can’t imagine my emotions spilling out in front of all those people.

I’m lost in flashing memories of the white dress that took too long to choose and the vanilla cake with raspberry filling that went home with wedding guests, when I hear a low rumbling sound threading its way through the trees.

At first, I figure it’s my imagination trying to shake the horrific day out of my mind.

Then, the noise becomes louder, more tangible.

I sit up and squint through the dusty windshield as a shape emerges from the tree line. It’s some guy on his motorcycle. Leather jacket, broad shoulders, T-shirt flying back in the wind, tattoos streaking down both arms.

I’ve never been happier to see a stranger.

I jump out of the truck and stand on the opposite side of the narrow dirt road, signaling like traffic control in a town of one. The man slows his bike, stirring a cloud of dust around him.

Even in the dust, I can see the man is huge. I’m not talking huge as in large. I’m talking huge as in not from this species.

Suddenly, every bit of advice my mother ever gave me about stranger danger echoes through my head. ‘Not everyone who smiles at you is your friend, Mae.’ She liked that one best. I’m sure it’s because I made friends with everyone and everything that smiled at me.

Thankfully, this guy isn’t smiling.

“You lost?” he groans under his breath, as though he’s annoyed at the fact that I’ve stopped him.

“I’m broken down, and there’s no cell service out here.” I try to keep my energy light but it’s a little annoying that he can’t manage a friendly tone. I’m the one who got left at the altar yesterday. Doubt his day was as bad.

He leans his head back slowly, dragging his gaze over me as though he’s sizing me up.

This makes the most sense. Of course, I’m going to be murdered. I mean, what else would’ve capped off this week?

I fold my arms across my chest and straighten my back, looking as wide and tall as possible in the hopes it will scare him away. I don’t need a ride this badly. One water bottle or not, I’ll survive on rainwater and berries.

Unfortunately, my attempt at outsizing him doesn’t work.

He exhales through his nose, kicks down the stand on his bike, and swings his long leg over the seat, barely looking at me as he steps one heavy boot after the other toward my truck.

“What’s wrong with it?” He still sounds miserable, like his dog and his grandma ran off together to start a punk band. It’s that or his best friend married his ex and invited him to the wedding via group text.

“It’s the alternator.” I clear my throat. “It’s always the alternator.”

He stares toward me for a long moment as though he’s surprised I know the word alternator , strokes his massive hand down over his beard, then pops the hood without asking.

How rude!

I pinch my lips together and stand beside him, climbing up onto the front bumper to see into the engine block.

He skims an eye toward me. His voice is so deep I swear it shakes my chest as he says, “What are you doing?”

“I’m helping.”

“Helping me look?” He still sounds so damn annoyed.

“Yeah,” I snap, no longer willing to offer this man pleasantries. “She’s my truck… so I’m helping.”

“You’re not helping, you’re blocking the light.” I glance back at the sun, letting it blind me for a moment instead of trusting that he’s, in fact, correct about me blocking his light.

I hate admitting I’m wrong, especially to this stranger of five minutes, apparently.

“Oh,” I jump down off the bumper, trying to ignore the burning in my cheeks, “there’s no reason to look, anyway. It’s the alternator. Sheila does this all the time.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, just grunts low and non-committal, as he fiddles with something under the hood. “You named your truck?”

“Yes, don’t pretend like you don’t. I’m sure your pretty little bike over there has a first and last name.”

He laughs under his breath and wipes his hands on his jeans before turning toward me. “It’s not a little bike, and it doesn’t have a name. It’s a machine. Machines don’t have names.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of joyful masculinity?” I toss my empty water bottle into the truck with a soft thud. “Next, you’ll be telling me feelings are optional and how soap is a government conspiracy.”

I swear I watch his jaw tighten. “Alternator’s definitely not happy.”

“Really? Is that right?” I land my hand on my hip and twist to the side. “It’s almost like I said that already.”

“You could fix the corroded wires, and you’d stop having this problem, but maybe first start with your attitude. This a Bridezilla thing?”

“Bridezilla?” I narrow my brows. “What are you talking about?”

“The wedding gown hangin’ out in your backseat.”

“Oh, God.” I roll my eyes and lean against Sheila for support. “Yeah, that’s going to Goodwill. I’m officially no longer engaged.” I probably shouldn’t tell this man anything, but I feel an urge to set the record straight.

He steps back from the truck and slams the hood back in place like it owes him a steak dinner. “So, you’re one of those runaway brides… like on TV?”

I narrow my brows, taking the bait. “No, I’m not a runaway bride. I’m a woman who came to her senses.”

“Right,” he groans, smirking.

Smirking? The man smirked!

“I’m sorry, did someone die? Is your entire family being held hostage by forest trolls with sharp spears and poisonous mushrooms, or were you raised by a pack of wolves up on the darkest part of this mountain?”

He laughs under his breath. “Wolves would’ve been friendlier than my parents. Pretty sure about that one. And forest trolls,” he straightens his back as though he’s showing me how enormous he is again, “I’m pretty sure I could take ‘em.”

“Of course you could,” I say with a sarcastic tone so intense it rattles my bones.

“Look,” he groans as he brushes his hand down over his salted beard, “I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’ve got a million things on my mind, and then you pop out of nowhere like a Disney side character, desperate to judge every facial expression I have.”

I hold up my finger. “Okay, first of all, I’m the main character . Second, you could’ve just waved and kept riding.”

“And miss getting insulted by a runaway bride with a sharp tongue and a truck full of trauma?” he says, the corner of his mouth tilting into the hint of a sneer. “Nah, this is way more fun.”

I stare at him, part furious, part flustered, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit charmed in spite of myself.

“Okay, grumpy pants. What’s the plan, then? You just gonna keep roasting me until the sun goes down, or can you drive me into town?”

He stares at me, then up toward the darkening sky. “You notice the clouds rolling in, princess? There’s a storm blowing in, and it’s supposed to be real bad. Hail, wind, buckets of rain. I’m gonna hole up in a cabin a few miles west of here until it blows over.”

Of course there’s a storm coming. That’s the start of every murder mystery. Stupid girl goes back to a woodsy cabin with a strange man. “Don’t call me princess.”

“Okay,” he does this half laugh, half groan thing, “so you prefer Bridezilla instead?”

I roll my eyes. “Or… you could call me Mae, ‘cause that’s my name. What’s yours?”

“Red.”

“ Red? Your mother named you Red? ”

“What my mother named me isn’t what you’re going to call me, so it doesn’t matter.”

Now I’m the one laughing. “Yeah, I think I’ll call you Grumpelstiltskin.”

He lets out a long, weary sigh. “Grumpelstiltskin, really?”

“Really.” I grin, pleased with myself for thinking of such an accurate name.

“So that means I get like three wishes, right?”

“No, you get a sarcastic nickname and a hitchhiker strapped to your back.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like he might actually smile, but he doesn’t.

I can’t tell if he thought my joke was funny or if he’s happy his murder strategy is working out as planned.

“Keep talking, princess.” There’s an edge of threat in his tone, but it feels playful despite his massively terrifying shell.

A rumble echoes in the distance and a drop of rain wets the tip of my nose.

I could wait around for someone else to come.

There’s water dropping from the sky. I’ll be fine to hole up in the truck.

Then again, this is a small town and we’re miles from cell reception.

It could be days before someone comes out this way.

I doubt I could survive off berries and sky water for that long.

He climbs onto his bike as though the decision has already been made. “Come on, princess. We’ve gotta beat this storm.”

Dear God, help me.

I lean my head to the side, studying his bulky frame so I could give a description to the cops or pick him out of a lineup… if I make it back.

He’s tall. I’d guess nearly seven feet, with dark black ink winding down both arms and onto his hands. Skulls, lots of skulls. Skulls, playing cards, and a symbol of some sort. It’s probably the gang he’s in. All these biker guys are in one, right?

His beard is dark red with heavy streaks of silver, and he wears torn jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather vest with patches sewn into the front and back. This must be the gang thing. The back lettering is stitched with the words ‘Chaos Brothers.’

How… promising.

“Come on, princess, I don’t have all day.” He starts up the engine, twisting the throttle like it’s personally insulted by me.

I sigh as I glance toward Sheila. “Hopefully, I’ll be back for you, old girl. Hopefully .”

She doesn’t answer because she’s a truck, but I pretend she huffs out in solidarity anyway.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walk around to the side of Grumpelstiltskin’s bike and stand there like my body is still deciding if this is a good idea.

He glances back, arching a brow as a strong wind whips up behind us. “You planning on climbing up or issuing a formal declaration of disdain first?”

I step closer, eyeing the seat cautiously. “I’ve never been on one of these before.”

“It’s not a spaceship. You sit, you hold on, and you try not to scream in my ear.”

“Great,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Just casually trusting my life to a man who names nothing and empathizes with no one.”

“You keep talking like that, I’ll start charging for emotional labor.” He seems humored by his own comment.

Grumpelstiltskin would.

I swing my leg over, nearly kicking him in the ribs in the process, then settle in behind him like someone making peace with her poor life choices.

At least he smells good. Something like leather, motor oil, and the whisp of a campfire.

I breathe him in, pushing away the tiniest bit of arousal that knocks between my legs as I shrink behind him.

The bike roars, and we’re off, dust rising, trees blurring, and Sheila shrinking in the rearview of a weekend that just keeps getting weirder.